The King's Evil (21 page)

Christopher
Redmayne's astonishment was matched by his unabashed delight. Jacob watched
with wry amusement then stood aside as his master surged out of the kitchen
and through into the parlour. Penelope Northcott was standing in the centre of
the room, gazing around it with distant curiosity. In his eagerness to see her
again, Christopher had forgotten that she was in mourning for the death of her
father and he had to school his own excitement when he was confronted by the
subdued figure in sober attire. She gave him a tired smile.

'I
am sorry to descend on you unannounced, Mr Redmayne.'

'Not
at all, Miss Northcott,' he said, pleased to find that she was alone. 'You are
most welcome. Do sit down.'

'Thank
you,' she said, lowering herself on to a chair. 'It has been a taxing day and I
must confess that I am weary.'

'May
I offer you some refreshment?'

'Not
for me, Mr Redmayne, but I daresay that Dirk would be very grateful for
something to slake his thirst.'

'Dirk?'

'My
coachman. He waits at your door. It has been a long drive and the poor fellow
must be close to exhaustion.'

'Then
we must revive him at once.'

Christopher
turned to call Jacob but the servant was already at his elbow. Having taken his
instructions, he left the house by the kitchen door to see to the needs of the
coachman. Christopher perched on a chair and appraised his visitor with
admiration.

'You
came all this way in one day?' he said.

'Dirk
drove the coach. All that I had to do was to sit in the back of it and count the
bumps in the road. There were thousands. But, yes,' she said wearily, 'we left
before dawn in order to get here by nightfall. Fresh horses were waiting for us
in Orpington.'

'Would
it not have been more comfortable to break the journey?'

'Infinitely
more comfortable, Mr Redmayne. But my business in London would brook no delay.'

'I
see.'

'In
view of that, I hope that you will overlook what may appear to be somewhat
indecent behaviour.'

'Indecent?'

'My
father was buried only two days ago,' she said quietly. 'Most people would
think it highly improper for his daughter to go haring off to London when she
should be grieving in the privacy of her home. You may well take such a view of
my conduct yourself.'

'Never!'
he affirmed. 'You will hear no word of criticism from me, Miss Northcott.
Though we only met once, I judged you to be a person who would do nothing
without a good reason. Something has clearly impelled you to come here. I look
forward to hearing what it is.'

His
warm smile was intended to encourage her but it seemed to have the opposite
effect. Penelope was suddenly discomfited and her hands fidgeted in her lap.
Evidently, she was having second thoughts about her impulsive action. He tried
to come to her rescue.

'I
am still on the trail of the killer,' he promised her. 'Would you like to hear
what progress we have made?'

'We?'

'A
constable named Jonathan Bale is helping me.'

'Do
you know the identity of the murderer?'

'Not
yet, Miss Northcott. But we get ever closer to him.'

Suppressing
any unfavourable details about her father, Christopher gave her a full account
of their investigations. Though her face was lined with fatigue, she listened
intently throughout. He noticed the blush which came to her cheeks at the
mention of the
Marie Louise.
When his recital was over, she spoke with great feeling.

'You
have done so much on our behalf, Mr Redmayne. Mother and I cannot possibly
repay you for your sterling efforts.'

'Finding
the man responsible will be reward enough.'

'That
is what I have been telling myself.'

'What
do you mean?'

'Arresting
the guilty man takes precedence over everything,' she said solemnly. 'The end
justifies the means. Even if those means involve some personal embarrassment.'
She leaned forward. 'Mr Redmayne, I will have to rely on your discretion.'

'Do
so with complete confidence.'

'May
I?'

'Whatever
you tell me will remain within these four walls.'

'It
must needs spill out beyond them, I fear,' she sighed. 'Let me explain. Before
you left Priestfield Place, you asked me to make contact with you if we
remembered anything about Father which might be germane to your investigation.
You gave me this address.'

'I
am glad that I did so.'

She
became more hesitant. 'What brought me here today was not something which
either of us remembered,' she said slowly, lowering her head, 'but something
which I found. Most of Father's private papers are kept in a safe at his
lawyer's office but a few were locked away in a desk in the library at
Priestfield Place. I prised the lock open to find them.'

'That
was very enterprising of you, Miss Northcott.'

'My
enterprise led to a rude awakening.'

'In
what way?'

'Judge
for yourself,' she said, bringing a small bundle of letters out from beneath
her cloak. 'I assume that you read French?'

'Tolerably
well. I lived in Paris for a while.'

'These
were sent to Father by someone called Marie Louise.'

She
handed him the letters. Written on scented paper, they were held together by a
pink ribbon. Christopher had some idea of what he might find and consideration
for Penelope's feelings made him hold back until she gestured for him to read
one of the missives. It did not take him long. The first letter was short,
explicit and couched in the most loving terms. Marie Louise was patently
entranced by Sir Ambrose Northcott. She had a fine hand and a turn of phrase
which was subtly erotic.

'Read
the next one,' urged Penelope.

'Do
I need to, Miss Northcott?'

'An
address is given in Paris. And the lady's full name.'

Christopher
opened the next letter. Marie Louise Oilier was even more explicit this time,
recalling the delights of a week spent together with her lover in Calais and
looking forward with enthusiasm to their next rendezvous. In the meantime, she
sent an address where she could be reached in Paris.

When
he glanced up, Christopher saw the look of intense embarrassment on Penelope's
face and his heart went out to her. Coming on top of the news of her father's
murder, the discovery of the letters must have been a crushing blow to her and
he could only imagine the pain it must now be costing her to show them to a
stranger and make her anguish public. He offered them back to her.

'Keep
them, Mr Redmayne,' she said. 'Read them all.'

'Later,'
he decided, putting them on the table.

'I
do not wish to touch them again.'

'That
is understandable.'

'It
was an effort to refrain from burning them,' she admitted. 'For that is what I
did with the portrait of her.'

'Portrait?'

'It
was no more than a sketch, attached to one of the letters, but it must have
been a good likeness or my father would not have kept it.' Her voice began to
falter. 'That is what hurt me most of all, Mr Redmayne.'

'What
was?'

'Marie
Louise Oilier
is ...
a young woman. If the sketch is
to be believed, she is not much above my own age.'

The
full horror hit her once again and she closed her eyes to absorb the blow,
biting her lip as she swayed to and fro. Christopher moved across to put a
comforting arm around her and her head fell gratefully on to his shoulder. Joy
and sadness were intermingled as he enjoyed the brief intimacy and shared her
sorrow, inhaling her perfume and consoling her with soft words. When another
young woman had been in his arms, fear had consumed him but the embrace felt
wholly natural this time. Penelope Northcott was everything that Margaret
Littlejohn could never be. She was wanted.

As
soon as he felt her rally, he released her and stood back. She thanked him with
a nod then dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Christopher resumed his
seat, touched that she felt able to express her emotions in front of him. She
regarded him seriously.

'Will
you be honest with me, sir?' she asked.

'Of
course.'

'Were
you entirely surprised by what I have disclosed?'

He
shook his head. 'No, Miss Northcott.'

'Why
not?'

'My
brother, Henry, was a friend of your father's. That fact alone,' he said,
searching for a kind euphemism, 'hinted at a degree of moral laxity. Henry has
always sought pleasure in abundance. I assumed that he and Sir Ambrose were
birds of a feather. My brother has admitted as much.'

'Yet
you made no mention of it to me.'

'I
hoped to keep such details from you.'

'That
was very kind of you,' she said, 'but I have no illusions left to shatter. When
I heard that he had been killed, I thought I had lost a dear and loving father.
It was like a knife through the heart to realise what sort of man he really
was.'

'Was
your mother equally wounded?' he said.

'Why
do you ask that?'

'She
may have noticed things which you did not.'

'Go
on.'

'When
I was leaving Priestfield Place, I chanced to see Lady Northcott in the garden.
Your mother was not exactly overwhelmed with grief.'

Penelope
nodded. 'I think that Mother had guessed what was going on and learned to live
with it. Father's absences grew longer and longer. A wife is bound to draw
conclusions. The garden has always been a great consolation to her.'

'Did
you show her the letters?'

'Of
course.'

'What
was her reaction?'

'She
refused to read them.'

'Does
Lady Northcott know that you brought them to me?'

'It
was my mother who urged me to find you.'

'And
what of your fiancée?' he asked tentatively. 'Does Mr Strype know that you are
here?'

'No,'
she said bluntly. 'He would have stopped me coming.'

'Why?'

'That
is a personal matter, Mr Redmayne.'

'Then
I will not pry.'

Christopher
turned the conversation to more neutral topics, asking about her coach journey
and whether or not she found London an exciting city to visit. Penelope
gradually relaxed. Having unburdened an unpalatable family secret, she could
actually start to enjoy her host's company. She had no doubts about the wisdom
of what she had done and knew that she could trust Christopher with her family
secrets.

He
was drawn to her more strongly than ever. What she had done would have been
courageous in a mature woman. In a young lady, fragile and vulnerable after a
bereavement, it was an act of sheer bravado, enhanced by the fact that she was
concealing her movements from the man she was engaged to marry.

Time
flowed past so freely and pleasantly that neither of them noticed the shadows
lengthening. It was only when Jacob brought in additional candles that they
realised how late it must be. As the servant quit the room, Penelope rose to
her feet in a flurry of apologies.

'I
have stayed far too long, Mr Redmayne. Do forgive me.'

'There
is nothing to forgive.'

'Dirk
must have been waiting for hours.'

'Do
not worry about your coachman. Jacob will have looked after him, I am sure.
Where do you plan to spend the night?'

'I
had thought to go to the house in Westminster.'

'Had
thought?' he repeated, hearing the doubt in her voice. 'Has something happened
to change your mind?'

'Yes,
sir. That bundle of letters.'

'Do
you fear that you may find more in Westminster?'

'It
is possible,' she said with a shiver. 'When you read the rest of those
missives, you will see that Father was building the house near Baynard's Castle
for this French lady of his.' Bitterness intruded. 'It was not enough to have
her name painted on the side of his ship and to correspond with her. He was
planning to live with her in London. To keep one abode here for his family and
another for his mistress.'

'I
had already made that deduction, Miss Northcott.'

'Then
you will understand my reluctance to visit the house in Westminster. Its
atmosphere would not be conducive to rest. No,' she said, reaching a decision.
'I will stay at a reputable inn. If there is one which you can recommend, I
would be most grateful.'

'As
it happens,' he began, responding to a sudden idea, 'there is such a hostelry.
But I hesitate to name it because it falls so far short of the kind of accommodation
to which you are accustomed at Priestfield Place. It is clean, decent, totally
safe and there is nowhere in London where you will be looked after with more
care. But,' he added with a shrug, 'it is small and limited in the comforts it
can offer you.' 'All that I need is a warm bed, sir. I will dispense with
comforts.'